Twenty Five Miles or Thousands of Miles
by sbgrrl
Summary: Coda to 5.16/Dark Side of the Moon. Rated for language only. Summary: There is a certain irony in the fact that the only one with faith left is the one slotted for possession by the devil himself.


_A/N: It's been a while. I hate dry spells! This one was inspired by 5.16, and also the song "Small Planes" by The Innocence Mission. Hope you enjoy!_

_A/N II: I love Sam. The theory that he is a selfish SOB who only sees his side of the story is, frankly, one I find pretty damned offensive because I find that attitude invalidates Sam's decisions and/or deems them "wrong". They are not any more wrong than Dean's. They were never wrong. They don't match what Dean thinks it all should be about BUT THAT, TOO, IS **NOT WRONG**. For the record, I do think Dean has a right to be upset here and in many places, however I do not now nor have I ever seen him really make any attempt at ALL to see things in any other light than his own which is, ironically, as selfish as some think Sam is. And my opinion on that subject does not make me dislike Dean any more than I dislike Sam. Because I happen to love them both. Dean is not right and Sam is not wrong. Dean is not wrong and Sam is not right. They are **both** a little bit of each, and, oh, how I wish fandom could be more friggin' open minded in this regard._

_/end missive, and all apologies. If the rant means you never read me again, that's okay. I had to get it off my chest._

**Twenty-Five Miles or Thousands of Miles**

The amulet thudding to the bottom of the trash can could have been a blade to Sam's gut for all he was concerned. It had the same effect, splitting pain like being hewn in two. He'd felt it before, both literal and figurative, but that didn't make him accustomed to it. Wounds always bled the same, first or fiftieth. He stood alone in the middle of the room, too stunned to put together a coherent thought. Trying to breathe. He couldn't take his eyes off the trash can. It was … giving Dean that amulet had been one of his miserable but so _incredibly_ happy times, a slice of his heaven he never thought Dean needed to see to believe was true.

It was as if Dean had thrown him away too, like he was just so much garbage.

The car horn honked, snapping Sam's attention from the trash can. He pushed himself into motion at last. He rubbed at his eyes, hot with tears he couldn't let Dean see. He wasn't sure, though, that Dean cared one way or another what Sam was thinking or feeling. The end of the world was coming, and he thought maybe Dean hated more than loved him. In a way maybe the end of the world had already happened. He gathered up the rest of his stuff and hastily shoved it in his bag. The car honked again. He took a few steps.

Sam paused at the door. He looked down and was suddenly angry. Not _at_ Dean. Not really, but no. No, he wasn't going to let Dean throw this, him, out. He couldn't. It wasn't over yet. He glanced at the car. Dean's face was turned; he was staring away from the motel. Sam picked the amulet up. It felt heavy. It still felt important. He closed his fingers around it, holding it tight for a second before he pocketed it, then left the room. He doubted Dean would appreciate him saving something he considered worthless. Dean didn't have to know yet, but some day. Some day. Sam swallowed, wishing he could will away the tightness at the back of his throat.

Castiel was gone. Sam wasn't surprised by that, but he was surprised Castiel had given up. He didn't know how he'd ended up being the only one who had any faith left. It seemed so impossible, and he knew somewhere deep down it wasn't faith he felt so much as desperation. Someone had to hold on to whatever tiny thread there was, now more than ever. He tossed his bag into the back and slid into the passenger seat. He didn't say anything. He didn't know what to say, because everything he said to Dean was wrong on a good day. After this, after being shown parts of his Heaven were parts of Dean's Hell, he knew his words wouldn't reach his brother yet, maybe not ever. Wounds always bled the same, first or fiftieth.

"Where are we going?" Sam asked, a question he'd asked a million times before.

"Away from here," Dean said, an answer he'd given a million times before.

So they were together on the road. Sam wasn't sure what that meant anymore. He didn't know what the point was if Dean wasn't really in the fight. He was damned afraid that was true. That niggling, awful feeling he'd had for months had swelled into something much bigger and it seemed so much further out of his grasp now. Since the hope was only on his shoulders he couldn't let doubt in, but there it was knocking. Every day it got stronger and he got weaker. He knew it.

And the road stretched on. They would keep following it no matter where it led them, just as they always did. Sam used to think they had control about their destination. That seems like a pipe dream now. Even in Heaven, they hadn't had control. Heaven had seemed like a zoo to him, each soul an animal in its own specially created habitat.

"Is Castiel going to be all right, you think?" Sam asked.

"Castiel's Castiel. He's in it to the end, even if Daddy has ditched him. Everyone's ditched him," Dean said. His voice was tight with dull anger. "Sound familiar?"

So much for thinking Castiel might be a safe subject, because there Dean went again with the unsubtle jabs. Sam frowned. He didn't know what it was going to take for Dean to ever believe him again, or at least stop looking back at past hurts and realize Sam was right _there_, right _now_, right _always_. Maybe it was his own fault for taking multiple attempts to learn that lesson. It probably was, but at the same time sooner or later it had to dawn on Dean that things did not have to be only black or white. God knew Sam had learned that a long time ago.

He almost snorted. Speaking of God. God had left the zoo in the hands of some rather untrustworthy keepers. Sam wouldn't defend the move because he didn't understand it, but he also had to think there was some greater purpose to it he and Dean and Castiel simply couldn't see. They probably weren't _supposed_ to see it. He had to wonder, though, how God thought such a tool like Zachariah should be allowed such a long leash.

Zachariah had been given a long leash. No one in his right mind would trust that guy, Sam thought, so maybe it was God's way of letting Zachariah hang himself with it. Sometimes the best way to know if kids were good or not was to see how they behaved without someone monitoring them. Sam sat up straighter. He touched his pocket, making sure the amulet was still there. Of course it was. It wasn't going anywhere just like he wasn't. He narrowed his eyes, remembering with unfortunate clarity Zachariah's hands all over his mother. If that had been her at all. If any of it had been what they naturally would have seen. With Zachariah involved, he doubted it.

"You know nothing we saw, y'know, up there was genuine." Sam said it quiet, more to himself than Dean though he thought Dean needed to hear it.

"It was real, Sam. I remembered all those things."

"So did I, but that's not what I meant. It was real, but it wasn't genuine. It was Zachariah," Sam said, actually feeling a bit excited. Dean had to understand what this meant. "Ash conveniently swooping in to tell us how it was. Pamela happening to be there to explain how the apocalypse _might not be so bad_. Hell, even what we saw was manufactured for one purpose. You know Zachariah's game. Don't let him win it."

"You really think that, or are you trying to make yourself feel better about your idea of heaven?" Dean snapped.

Sam wasn't going to lie, that hurt any reply right out of him. It all hurt. But it also made him a little angry. He pursed his lips, not sure why he had bothered trying. That was his mistake, so Dean's response was partly his own doing. It was too soon. The wound hadn't scabbed over enough yet. The problem was he didn't think it ever would. Dean would bleed forever, until he was empty. He was too damned close to that now. Sam knew a thing or two about being empty. He didn't think Dean knew that about him.

They kept driving. This road was the same as every road they'd ever been on, but to Sam it felt different. He thought about the road they were on before, and why they'd been allowed to remember Heaven this time. If that was part of God's plan, he didn't understand it unless it meant God thought the only way out was through. That he and Dean were meant to be forever at odds for no damned good reason at all. Fuck it. They were being given a long leash too, and he didn't want to end up with it around his or Dean's neck.

"That time with Mom, when she was fighting with Dad," Sam said. "Why would that be part of your Heaven? That wasn't a good memory. It was about family, but it wasn't good."

"I don't want to talk about this, Sam."

"I know you don't, but I want you to know something whether or not you're ready to believe it." Sam turned his torso, so he was facing Dean a little. "What I'd remember as the best times of my life weren't what Zachariah weeded out for me. I had no clue what I was doing at that house, eating Thanksgiving dinner with that strange family until you showed up and told me we were in Heaven. And, yeah, they _were_ happy times for me. But they weren't Heaven happy."

Dean didn't respond.

"Heaven would be Jess. It would having the chance to know Mom and Dad in a way I never could before," Sam said. He smiled. "It would be that time at the Blue Earth County Fair you won me Michelangelo the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle when I was six, playing Ring Toss. How proud you were of me when I got mono from making out with Jayme Remmele when I was fourteen. Christmas when I was eight."

Sam paused, just to see if he was making any kind of dent in the wall Dean had up. It was too dim to tell. He didn't think so, but the wall was understandably sturdy.

"Fireworks that burned down a field," he whispered.

Dean's jaw muscle clenched, and he kept his eyes on the road.

Sam didn't know how long he could go on saying _"I love you"_ to Dean if all Dean ever heard was _"I never loved you. I left you and I'll do it again."_ He stared at the yellow stripes in the middle of the road as they flew past. How long? He knew. Twenty-five miles or thousands of miles, it didn't matter. And those miles, however many of them, were going to be on the road to heaven, not hell. He would take each one step at a time and wait for Dean to catch up, even if it took to the very last mile of the journey.


End file.
